


quiescence

by alephnull



Category: Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Angst, Blood, Drabble, Gen, One-Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-28
Updated: 2017-02-28
Packaged: 2018-09-27 12:47:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 368
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10021385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alephnull/pseuds/alephnull
Summary: He wants to hear the angry red roads of blood roaring in his ears, but his blood is not angry; it is sad, quiescent, tranquil.





	

**Author's Note:**

> based off of the tumblr prompt _the world is too quiet here_. [tumblr](https://kitsnxcket.tumblr.com/post/157827778081/for-the-fic-prompts-lemony-number-1)
> 
> description of blood ensues. if that makes you uncomfortable, don't read.

Ghost-white hands shake, crimson ribbons contrasting with the wan complexity of Lemony’s skin. The only sound audible to the shivering boy is his own, scratchy, all-too-loud breathing; he can hear himself blink, hear the tiniest rustle of his clothing. The world is too quiet yet too loud all at the same time, and it is overwhelmingly minimalist.

Lemony has never been particularly weepy, yet tears nearly well in his eyes at his thin veil of normalcy being shattered. He almost feels like a small child and wants to run into some nonexistent mother’s loving arms, to be held because everything’s okay really, it’s fine, he’s just making a mountain out of a molehill.

 _Take deep breaths_ , he can hear his sister saying, _in, out, in, out_. But he doesn’t want to breathe at all. It’s all too loud, overwhelming; he just wants to block out all noise yet hear it all at once because everything’s only this uncomfortably loud because everything’s uncomfortably quiet. Hearing his own breath is of no use, because he wants to hear others breathe, wants to be assured that he’s not alone in this godforsaken place. But that would be fallacious, because he’s been plagued with the disease of loneliness since around about his birth, never truly had a hand to hold despite what he told himself. Associates, not friends.

It’s quiet, _too quiet_ , mockingly so. He wants to hear the angry red roads of blood roaring in his ears, but his blood is not angry; it is sad, quiescent, tranquil. It is sombre and mourning. He wants to hear the world’s hatred of him, be shouted at, be physically beaten, anything but this absence of matter, this vacuous empty space.

He will do anything for stimulus at this point, anything to fill the void he feels like he’s floating in, so he punches the ground, and then again, and again, and again, until his knuckles don’t resemble knuckles anymore, until the scarlet streaks across his fingers and hands and arms and entire body are furious, quivering with ire. Tears and sweat mingle with the murky fluid flowing out of his cuts; he screams only to hear something, because anything is better than silence.


End file.
